


something that we're not

by chocobos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Minor Violence, blooooood, sort of re-write of 1x09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 17:52:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocobos/pseuds/chocobos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fucking relief he feels knowing that Gallagher didn't die in that hospital bed makes him feel ashamed and angry enough that he drives his fists through his living room wall, and doesn't stop until the skin on his knuckles don't hurt anymore, until the blood runs down his wrists and his fingers are so pink and shredded they're not even recognizable anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something that we're not

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a 400 word drabble to a prompt i saw on the ianmickey community on lj, and alas, it has grown into this monster. i lost a link to the original prompt but it was something along the lines of 'what if kash had shot ian instead of mickey' and then this happened.
> 
> i might write more in this verse because i think it would be interesting to see how their relationship would develop (or undevelop) if mickey had never gone to juvie that first time. let me know if you'd be interested in something like that and i'd be happy to expand on this in the future!
> 
> i've been very careful about what language i have mickey use, because i know some of his dialogue in the show is very offensive. if that makes him ooc to you, i apologize. i also apologize for the embarrassing amount of italics in here.
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy :)

"Put that back, Mickey." Kash's voice is trembling.

Mickey would laugh if he thought Kash was worth it (he wasn't).

He takes a bite from the Snicker's bar and sees the gun from his peripheral.

Kash looks nervous and unsure and really fucking helpless, like he'd rather be doing anything than holding that damn gun in his hands. Mickey would believe it, too, the guy is the straightest (ha) definition of a pussy he's come across-it's Southside, it's not exactly like they're in surplus here or anything. Everyone eventually learns to harden up. Apparently, Kash never got the message. His hand is still fucking shaking, though, the gun moving in fast, jerky little movements left to right and Mickey can't help but think that if the bastard actually gathers enough courage to shoot the damn thing that there's a very _real_ , very high chance of getting brained.

Mickey doesn't want that to happen. He’s still got coke runs to collect from. His father would murder him if he even thinks about getting killed. Especially by Kash.

"Fuck," he curses, and before he can really think it through--who the fuck lunges at someone with a _gun_ \--he lunges at Kash.

Ian must see it, too, because Mickey can hear a box thud to the ground, can hear Ian's panicked steps stop just before the panel of gum and other shit right by the front counter. Mickey thinks if he listens hard enough he could probably hear the way Ian's heart is jack-hammering against his chest; afraid.

"The hell, Mickey?" Ian's voice rings high and shrill through the blood rushing through his ears, but it's still pretty easy to ignore him.

Mickey doesn't take his focus off of Kash. He's not quite sure if he can actually afford to.

"Mind your own fucking business, Gallagher," Mickey grunts, even though he's pretty sure Kash is acting out because of Ian; Ian _and_ Mickey. Mickey wonders, sort of aimlessly if Ian and Kash were meant to be exclusive, but then he feels the iron-hot sting of jealousy flow through his veins, and closes that line of thought real quick. Mickey Milkovich does not get fucking jealous. He’s never let himself care enough to get jealous of someone. He’s not going to start now."This is between the two of us."

He shifts his grip on Kash, because the slimy asshole is squirming in his grip, looking for a way out of it, and Mickey knows he’ll slip out soon enough if he doesn’t get a better hold on him. He tries to lock his elbows on Kash’s forearms to limit his mobility, but his grip slips just slightly and Kash moves before Mickey can stop him.

"Mick," Ian says, voice soft, now.

Mickey ignores him, for real this time, and digs his fingers into Kash's skin.

"Drop the gun," Mickey grunts. He'll put the damn candy bar back if it makes this idiot forget about the weapon in his hands. He so does not want to get shot today. "Drop the fucking gun."

Kash doesn't drop the gun, either because he's feeling really fucking reckless or because he really is just that stupid. Mickey hears him click off the safety, feels the cool metal of the barrel pressed just slightly against the skin of his bicep. He jerks.

"Kash," Ian says, voice pleading and his voice seems closer than before, like he realizes that if Kash shoots now he'll blow Mickey's entire fucking _arm_ off.

He doesn't look at Ian, can't even think of looking at Ian, because he probably looks just as horrible as he sounds, and Mickey's resolve has always been shit when it comes to Ian fucking Gallagher and he'll just end up saying something that feels wrong and heavy on his tongue. It’ll be something he’ll regret and sure, he can blame it on life-extenuating circumstances and near-death experiences but Ian will know better than that.

Ian knows Mickey better than anyone.

*

Mickey isn’t sure how it happens, isn’t even aware it’s happened until he can see Kash’s eyes flash from terrified to something harder, something Mickey can’t even identify. The barrel isn’t pressed against him anymore and he hears the loud ‘pop’ cut through the tiny store like a knife before he even has time to move.

*

There’s blood everywhere.

Mickey doesn't think he's ever seen so much blood, not from one of his father's many benders, or from that time his brothers coralled Mickey into the backyard to kill squirrels for target practice--Mickey hit every single damn one. It's everywhere, practically coating the floor with a thick layer of crimson-red where Ian's laying, and it makes an orange-hot rage fill his entire being.

 

“‘The fuck did you do?” Mickey spits at Kash. He feels his entire body screaming at him to jump on him, but he doesn’t. He stands stock-still in the store, and then only thing he can stare at is the way the blood is oozing out of Gallagher’s stomach.

“I--”

"Shit," Ian gasps, his face paler than usual, his fingers trembling on the disgusting floor, smearing blood across the linoleum. Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever hated anything more than the sight of Ian’s blood out on display like that, has never wanted to scrub a floor until his fingers were raw as much as he does now. "Fiona is going to kill me for this."

"You fucking idiot bastard," Mickey says, turning suddenly to look at Kash who looks caught between sick and shocked. "You shot him!"

"I--" Kash stammers. "That was meant to be you."

" _Obviously_ ," Mickey drawls, "You fucking missed! Pretty shitty aim. A toddler can shoot fucking better than you. _Frank_ could shoot better than you. What the actual fuck."

Kash doesn’t get a chance to answer, because before Mickey can even register he does it, he clocks him. He doesn’t even attempt to hide how much the sight of Kash cowering satisfies him.

Mickey would like to pound his whole fucking face in, but Ian cuts him off before he can.

"You should call an ambulance. Like, really call an ambulance.”

Mickey wants to turn around and shoot a glare at him, because he is so, so going to gut the bastard for getting hurt like this, for making Mickey _panic_ , but he doesn't. Ian's looking worse for wear, now, his eyelids are drooping like that Basset Hound Mandy forced Mickey to try and save one summer when they were just kids, and Mickey decides he doesn't like that look at all.

Silently, of course. He’d be royally fucked otherwise.

“Don’t just fuckin’ stand there,” Mickey says, as calmly as he can and he pointedly ignores how much his voice is trembling, how much this is actually affecting him. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like how alive and fresh and unshitty Gallgher makes him feel all of the time, doesn’t like the how he knows the difference between shitty and good, now.

He doesn’t like any of it, doesn’t like how Gallagher will lean over to him after they’ve fucked with some big gay smile on his face like they actually mean something to each other (they absolutely do not; Mickey’s never cared about anything but his sister and he’s not going to do different now, especially not for some deluded redhead who thinks it’s fun to meddle his way underneath Mickey’s resolve), doesn’t like how Gallagher will show up at his house unannounced and play the game of cat and mouse.

He doesn’t like how much he likes it; he fucking _hates_ it.

Kash reaches for the phone with shaky fingers to call 911, and Mickey snickers at how they shake, at how weak Kash is, how fucking weak he always is, but Mickey can’t help but think that his fingers would probably shake, too.

It’s Gallagher. His fingers would be fucking shaking too.

*

Mickey doesn’t remember much after that. He doesn’t ride along in the ambulance with him or anything, because they’re not fucking dating and he ain’t a fucking bitch, but Kash does. Mickey doesn’t think about how much that bothers him and instead goes home and raids his father’s liquor cabinet to get exceptionally plastered.

Mandy comes home after his fifth or fourteenth glass, he’s not really positive, but she takes one look at him on the couch and fucking smirks.

“It’s 2 PM on a Tuesday,” She says, plopping down next to him and stealing the bottle from him.

He glowers. “‘The fuck, Mandy, give that back.” He grunts, though he makes no move for the bottle. Mandy would just punch him in the face for trying to steal booze away from her.

He’s not drunk enough to try, at least not yet.

“What are you doin’ drinking so early?

Mickey shrugs. “I don’t need a reason.”

Mandy doesn’t answer for a while, just stares down the neck of the bottle, gets quiet and unsure and sad. Mickey doesn’t like it, has never fucking liked it.

“Ian got shot today.”

Mickey blinks, represses the shudder that threatens to vibrate his entire body; shrugs. "Who?"

“Gallagher,” Mandy clarifies, even though they only know one Ian, have only ever known one Ian. “He got shot at his work. Kash turned himself in.”

Mickey blinks. “Kash?”

“Yeah,” Mandy smirks. “He’s in surgery now, or something. I don’t know, I didn’t stick around because I felt weird, you know? He’s my best friend but I couldn’t stay there and think about the fact that my best friend just had gotten shot by the guy he’s been fucking. How fucking pussy is that? I can’t be there for my own fucking best friend.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, because at least Mandy showed up at the hospital at all, when he’s just sitting on his dirty couch getting drunk instead.

But, she’s always been the better person. So, maybe he’s not really that surprised.

*

Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

Okay, he knows what the fuck he’s doing--he’s standing outside Gallagher’s door like a fucking pussy, staring at the way his pale body blends in with the hospital sheets so much that it makes him feel ill, makes him want to tear the entire place apart until they can get Ian looking _alive_ again--but he doesn't like it, doesn't like how Gallagher has made him feel enough that he had to drag himself down here to make sure the kid was okay.

He opens the door before his inner monologue can get possibly any more embarrassing, and makes sure to shut the door behind him.

He almost expects to see one of the Gallaghers' pale, skinny--they're all too fucking skinny-- forms curled up in the corner, with one of their hands placed in Ian's own, because they've always been like that, they've always been freakishly close and loving and Mickey's never understood it. He's never understood how Southside and poverty and loss hadn't yet corrupted the Gallaghers like it did him. The room is empty aside from the machines beeping annoyingly by his head, and Mickey doesn't even think twice before he's pulling up a chair next to the bed.

 **  
**He's pretty sure he's seen this in a movie once. He doesn't like how easily he fits the role, but he figures no one is around to see it, so it doesn't really matter.

Mickey lets his eyes survey Ian’s chest, even though it’s covered by one of those uncomfortable looking hospital gowns--Mickey wouldn’t know for sure, he’s never had the luxury of going to a hospital for his injuries, before--and feels a sigh stutter out of him before he can hide it.

It sounds deafening in the room, but Mickey can’t take it back.

“You’re such a fuckin’ idiot,” Mickey mutters, mostly to himself, but to Gallagher too, because Gallagher _is_ a fucking idiot.

He should have run.

Ian’s never been good at doing what he should do.

It’s Southside.

It’s rare when someone is.

“S’hup,” Ian says, so soft Mickey almost thinks he’s imagining it.

He chances a glance at Ian’s face, and his eyes are droopy and there’s a tiredness that wasn’t there before, but he’s staring unblinkingly at Mickey’s face like if he doesn’t he’ll die, or like Mickey will disappear--and yeah, Mickey's never wanted to run more in his life, because you don't look at fuck buddies the way Gallagher's looking at him, but he stays rooted to the spot; Ian got shot today, and it should've been Mickey. He's never really felt the blue-cold rush of guilt before, but he feels it now; he doesn't like it--the smile that tugs at Gallagher's mouth is so familiar that Mickey ignores how gay it is and glares at him.

“Fuckin’ Gallagher.”

“Mick,” Ian breathes, and it sounds like it hurts.

Mickey pretends--he’s been pretending for a while; he’s pretty sure Gallagher knows he’s a fucking phony by now, has to, with the looks he gives Mickey sometimes, those smug bastard looks that quirk the sides of his mouth that make Mickey want to punch him right in the face--that doesn’t bother him, that it doesn’t make him want to hunt down a nurse and threaten them to make that break in his voice to go away, pretends, pretends, _pretends_.

He doesn't know what to say, truthfully he never knows what to say to Gallagher, everything sounds wrong and jagged and Mickey can see the way his words cut him open sometimes, can see the probing doe-eyed looks Ian shoots over at him when he thinks Mickey isn't looking--but Mickey's _always_ looking, that's the fucking problem.

He doesn’t know how to look away, never has when it comes to Firecrotch.

It’s not something he thinks about. 

“Why didn’t you run?” The words pass his mouth before he can make them gruffer, make them his, but Gallagher doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too high off of the medication, and he’s never been observant when he’s stoned. 

Ian shrugs. “Dunno,” he slurs, “‘Ash was gonna shoot you. I couldn’t leave you there to get shot, Mick.”

Mickey bites his lips on the “better me than you” that threatens to slip free, because he’s already said enough stupid things to him; he probably shouldn’t even have shown up at all.

*

Ian gets released three days later, and the fucking relief he feels knowing that Gallagher didn't die in that hospital bed makes him feel ashamed and angry enough that he drives his fists through his living room wall, and doesn't stop until the skin on his knuckles don't hurt anymore, until the blood runs down his wrists and his fingers are so pink and shredded they're not even recognizable anymore.

*

They’re in the baseball dugouts when Mickey’s too sated from coming to think twice about asking, and once the words are out in the open, the silence is weighted, pressing so heavily against Mickey’s chest that it hurts to fucking breath. Mickey’s looking at anything but Ian, covering up his embarrassment with misplaced anger, and Ian is staring only at him.

“You still fuckin’ Kash?”

Gallagher steals the cigarette from his hand before he can swipe his hand away like he wants to, and his hand hangs awkwardly in the air for a few seconds before he finally lowers it.

Gallagher doesn’t answer--of course he fucking doesn’t, because he likes making things difficult, likes putting Mickey on edge and shit; it’s always been infuriating, especially now because Mickey feels like he’s at the butt of some ridiculous joke--at first, just takes a drag from his cigarette and fixes that stupid look on Mickey that means he’s feeling excited inside but doesn’t want to show it and knows he’s failing miserably at it. He looks at Mickey for a long time, longer than Mickey can stand, and he ends up fidgeting like some bitch a couple minutes in, because Gallagher has the tendency to unravel him raw.

“You gonna fuckin’ answer me, asshole?” Mickey grunts, because he knows he probably won’t like the answer, but knowing is better than drawing conclusions. He can eventually deal with whatever answer Ian gives him.

And anyway, it’s not like he’s stopped fucking other people, too.

(He _has_ , but whatever. It’s okay to lie to himself sometimes, it’s fucking healthy.)

“No,” Ian sighs, eventually, after the silence has stretched on for so long Mickey wasn’t even sure he’d answer him at all--but Ian always answers him, eventually. “Kash refuses to work the same shifts as me now.”

Mickey steals the cigarette back from Ian and takes a long drag off it, loves the way the smoke heats him up from the inside, always has. “He too fuckin’ pussy to face the fact he cheap-shot you?”

It startles a laugh out of Ian, and Mickey tries not to pay attention to how that makes him feel warmer than the smoke in his lungs. “Yeah,” Ian says, and he sounds fine but his eyes are distant. “Linda’s tryin’ to find someone to help man the store with me.”

Mickey snorts. “Shouldn’t be so hard, man. This shithole is overflowing with unemployment.”

Ian glances at him out of the corner of his eye and Mickey takes another drag from the ciragette, just because he can. "Linda's trying to find some security for the store," Ian says. "Even though she gave Kash gun lessons I don't think she ever expected him to actually shoot it and it's freaking her out."

"She afraid some dude's going to bust up in there with a gun? Nothin' in that place is worth jackin, man."

Ian smirks. "Says you."

Mickey fixes him with a look. "Never had any weapons on me, asshole."

Gallagher shrugs, and limps over to the bench to get another beer from the pack. His mobility isn't like it was, at least not yet, but from what Ian tells him (whether Mickey wants to hear it or not) the ER doctor said he should be back to full mobility within a few weeks. 

Which is good, because while sex is still enjoyable--Gallagher has the type of cock that makes it impossible to not be enjoyable--Ian can't pound into him like he used to and that's what Mickey blames on the excitement that rushes through him at the thought.

"Would you want it?" 

"What?"

"The job," Ian clarifies.

Mickey fixes him with an incredulous look. "You want me to work at the place you got shot at?"

" _I_ do."

"That's 'cause you're a lunatic," Mickey says, but he sort of is too, and the thought of being able to sneak off into the freezer to fuck whenever they want is more appealing than he'd like to admit, so he just licks his lips and says, "Sure."

Gallagher flashes one of those infuriating, blinding smiles at him, and when he looks away to grab another cigarette out of the pack thrown haphazardly on the bench, Mickey ducks his head and hides a smile of his own.

(Shut up, it's totally not as gay as it sounds.)

**Author's Note:**

> title is taken from the demi lovato song of the same name.
> 
> feel free to follow/chat me up on tumblr:
> 
> noelfisha.tumblr.com


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